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June 2019

VOL. CXXXXIII No. 1

BOARD OF EDITORS

Nicholas S. Grundlingh ’20-’21, President Jack G. Stovitz ’20, President Michael M. Miller ’20, Ibis John Lim ’20, Narthex Brendan J. Falk ’20, Treasurer S. W. Roberts ’19-’20 L. D. Lavrova ’19-’20 T. Ninh ’19-’20 H. B. Flender ’19-’20 H. J. Hollister ’19 B. W. Mott ’19-’21 X. X. X. Tentación ’18 P. E. de Sa e Silva ’19

K. D. Firester ’19-’20 D. K. Wexner ’19 N. A. Araya ’20-’21 S. Wu ’20-’21 M. J. Kassabian ’19 M. G. Marshall ’19 J. T. Ball ’20-’21 A. Chen ’20

I. M. Gibney ’20 Y. Ji ’21 B. A. Mella ’19 M. J. Sciamanna ’19 C. de Losada ’21 A. M. Peikin ’20 J. L. Gilbert ’21 P. K. Stoller ’21

Olenka Jain ’20, Blot Lauren G. Fadiman ’21, Sanctum Lia R. Kiam ’21, Hautbois Marie A. Konopacki ’21, Hautbois Juan F. Arenas R. ’19-’20, Arenas Maxwell A. Gay ’21, Sackbut Zachary D. Goddard ’20, Librarian Michael R. Perusse ’20, Deputy Librarian Freddie S. Shanel ’21, Nave Liana A. Spiro ’19, Vanitas Scribes to the Accessibility Council Emily N. Orr ’21 Edward H. Sevilla ’20 BUSINESS BOARD Nicholas G. Jaeger ’21, Business Manager Jack K. Kelley ’19, Advertising Manager T. Donovan Keene ’18-’21, Advertising Manager Infinitum Tucker A. Flodman ’19, Circulation Manager B. Cohen ’19 I. A. Jasper ’19 S. H. Henson ’20 L. F. Hoffmann ’19 J. D. Wasserstein ’20

L. E. Graciano ’20 M. Eczacıbaşı ’20 D. J. Lynch ’20 P. T. Magahis ’21 B. L. Weber ’21

Elmer W. Green, 1897-1977, Grand Curator ISSUE EDITOR Scott W. Roberts

ART EDITOR Sabrina Wu

The Harvard Lampoon is published five times during the academic year by The Harvard Lampoon, Inc. Principal office 44 Bow Street, Cambridge, MA 02138. Third-class postage paid at Cambridge, MA. U.S. subscription: $20 for five issues, $35 for ten, $50 for fifteen, $50.69 for lifetime supply. Overseas subscriptions: call for rates. Postmaster: don’t take your job so seriously all the time. © 2019 Harvard Lampoon, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduction in any form without written permission is prohibited. Phone: (617) 495-7801. Fax: (617) 495-1668. URL: http://www.harvardlampoon.com. The Harvard Lampoon does not print unsolicited manuscripts, just this unsolicited magazine. The Lampoon is a registered trademark of The Harvard Lampoon, Inc.

It’s finally here—the last ever issue of the Harvard Lampoon. Can you believe it took us this long? When I first suggested that the Lampoon’s weekly book club should read Laurence Sterne’s 1768 satire A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy because it has a funny character named “Smellfungus” that I’d like to write an issue about, people were furious. “You’re 800 pages behind us in The Lorax,” they all seemed to yell at me. “You can’t just waltz into our book club and blah blah blah blah I forget what they said next. Doesn’t matter. The point is, that was the moment I decided to finally quit the Lampoon, move to a little shack in the Rockies, and go insane trying to writing a one-man opera entitled Smellfungus. In Sentimental Journey, Smellfungus is a caricature of a rude tourist, but I figured that might be too similar to the main character from the opera Mr. Bean Goes To Sudan, so in my opera he’s a secret agent named “Ace” who owns one hundred guns. I’ve agreed to play Ace, and Olivia Newton-John will eventually agree to play the love interest if she would just listen to one goddam second of my voicemails. As it turns out, the opera scene in wherever I am is pretty weak, so I assembled a ragtag crew of coal miners from the surrounding area to be my creative team. When we first started working together, these guys couldn’t tell an opera from an operetta! But I showed them the ropes, and just one month later I found out that each of them had independently written an operetta about my sister. Spending 15 hours a day in a windowless shack trying to write an opera about a book you’ve never read is certainly tough, but it has its perks. Just the other day I got heatstroke and met God. You may wonder why I chose Smellfungus instead of a more recognizable character from literature like Oliver Twist, or Smallfungus, or Swellfinger. The beauty lies in the interpretation. A word that to you and all your vapid, unimaginative friends suggests some sort of smelling… fungus, to me and to a select group of literate Englishmen in the 1760’s suggests a sophisticated satire of our modern times. If Laurence Sterne were alive today, he’d be appalled by all the kids “Minecrafting” their “TikTok” to their “haters” instead of going to “school.” And if I’m alive in 50 years, I’ll be appalled by all the kids “robo-drowning” their “Technochargers” instead of shooting down drones. In the end, satirical operas are the only weapon we have. So, if all has gone according to plan, an usher has just handed you this program and you’re sitting in your $10,000 balcony seats to the premiere of Smellfungus at the historic UCB Theatre. Check under your seat— ahahaha made you look, you idiot. But seriously though, check out some of the big names in attendance tonight. We got the Dentist Who Killed Cecil the Lion in the house, El Chapo, the Manson Family, the Grinch, Simon Cowell, Statler and Waldorf, Cartman, John Wilkes Booth… ahahaha okay that last one isn’t real. But could you imagine? In conclusion, the following pages are the best the Harvard Lampoon could come up with over the course of the past 9 years, and you’ll be delighted to find that none of the pieces in this issue are on theme whatsoever. Enjoy! Ho w Lem dy! I SWR me ’m M sho e w y an Ja c ou ‘rou k Mas t nd the head. se p Smellfungus # arts ...

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR Dear SWR,

Dear Erica,

Reading the Lampoon got me through my devastating divorce last year. Thanks to you guys, I’ve decided to quit my fake veterinarian practice and pursue comedy full-time. But how do I start writing jokes?

Ah, l’romance. I know it well. If I had a nickel for every time I told a girl I loved her, I’d have enough money to appeal every restraining order filed against me. If you really like this guy, you have to say it to his face. I know that must sound nerve-racking, and if it doesn’t then you’re some kind of emotionally intelligent freak and should run for president.

Love, Ryan T., Age 9 Eagle, NE Dear Ryan, IT’S SIMPLE. THERE IS ONLY ONE JOKE AND THAT IS SAYING ANYTHING IN A LOUD, FUNNY VOICE (I’m using all caps to convey the volume of the funny Italian accent I’m doing as I write this). ONCE YOU’VE MASTERED THAT, YOU HAVE MASTERED ALL JOKES. On a more serious note, deep down all jokes are just lies. For example, the funniest joke of all time is if you see someone wearing a Frankenstein Halloween costume, and you say “That’s a great Elvis costume!” in a really funny Daffy Duck voice. Some comedians also do a thing called subversion, which is where you build up tension with a “setup” and then you subvert expectations with a “ponchline.” A classic subversion would be a miscarriage, for example. Subversions work well because of the fact that life is an uncontrollable cycle of “tension-subversion-tension-subversion,” and the only real “release” you can get is suicide. Does that answer your question? Anyways, good luck with your divorce.

Just be careful. I never really talk about my personal life in these letters, but I once fell in love with a Ukrainian movie star. A few months into our green card marriage, it became clear she was not actually Ukrainian, nor a movie star, nor a woman, but rather a dog from a popular French sitcom. This will actually take too long to explain. Long story short, there was a year in my life where I fell for a different phishing scam every day. Anyways, we don’t have the infrastructure in place to do refunds. From, Scott Dear SWR, Sometimes I become aware that aliens are watching me in order to test the limits of my morality, but if I indicate to them that I’m aware of their existence then the aliens will terminate their experiments on me, either by killing me or by removing me from the world that I’ve come to accept as reality and placing me in a new world that is undoubtedly and unfathomably worse. Love, Tonkins, Age 34 Volcano, HI

From, Scott

Dear Thomas, Dear SWR, There’s a boy I like in my chemistry class, but when I tried to impress him by smacking a scary spider with your most recent issue, it missed completely and broke a priceless vase. Now I’ve been expelled. Can I get a refund? Love, Erica S., Age 16 Sycamore, IL

You raise a very good point. There’s no need to worry about other people judging you! These days, it’s more likely that everyone around you is too busy staring at their phones anyway, laughing at stupid unsuspecting idiots getting hurt in epic fail compilations. People are always so worried about how others perceive them that they forget to worry about the truly important parts of life, like their deformities and personality flaws. You only live once, brother! So dance like no one’s watching,

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HEY HIGH SCHOOLERS! Want to join the Lampoon?

but also take a moment to watch other people dance and mock them if they’re bad at it. It doesn’t matter how you get to this point of self-actualization—be it through meditation, hard drugs, or improv classes—all that matters is that you do it before the age of 25. Anyways, glad you like the magazine! Everything we do, we do for our subscribers.

THE HARVARD LAMPOON JUNIOR VARSITY SUMMER COMP

From, Scott

ON THIS DAY IN HISTORY...

* Larry the Cable Guy did a great bit about “Git er done.” * The first Cinco de Mayo was celebrated. * 4th day of 2006 Winter Olympics.

Introductory meeting July 1 in Adams Upper Common Room No adults. Juice and granola bars will be served.

CORRECTIONS DID YOU KNOW... * I once did a backflip? * Boston is the eastern-most city in the world if you’re in whatever city is slightly east of Boston? * Clicking this link will let you claim your $1,000,000,000 cash prize but clicking this one will give you a virus? * You can train yourself to echolocate if you’re an idiot? * If you lined up all the plastic straws in America, it would be the biggest line of straws ever?

Yeehaw! Stop sendin’ us so many darn tootin’ death threats.

We’d like to issue the following corrections to our previous issue, the Hey You Yeah You Please God Make It Stop #: * Page 7: there should have been many jokes on this page, not zero. * Page 9: same as page 7. * Page 17: same as page 7. * Page 33: should be “read” not “reach.” * Page 39: “jiz” is not a word, this should be “jizz.” * Page 41: the man’s name is Ralph Wormeley Curtis, not “Wormley,” as his friends will tell you. * The following members were omitted from the masthead, but are obviously still complicit in the Lampoon’s crimes and should be doxxed accordingly: L. F. Hoffmann ‘19, J. K. Kelley ‘19, J. D. Wasserstein ‘21, L. E. Graciano ‘21, M. Eczacıbaşı ‘20, D. J. Lynch ‘20 , N. G. Jaeger ‘21, P. T. Magahis ‘21, B. L. Weber ‘21. * By some horrific mistake, Liana A. Spiro ‘19 was accidentally admitted onto our literature board, elected president, and given creative control over one of our magazines.

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BP SECRET MISSION “Come. On. Fweebly. We’re going to get caught if you keep taking your sweet time to make it over these fences,” I say swiveling my head around to watch for guards. Fweebly Demarcus was not a tall man. He was not handsome or bright. And he always smelt of peanut butter and clams even though he was allergic to shellfish and afraid of the consistency of spreads. He was not my first choice to assist me in this mission. In fact, he was not my second. But he was not my third choice… And I am? Why, I’m surprised my reputation hasn’t preceded me. I am Charles British Petroleum, heir to the British Petroleum family fortune, master of all trades, jack of nothing. I am a playboy billionaire by day and a rich love-making machine at night. And currently, I am breaking into the Baltimore Aquarium to kill as many sea turtles as I can before I get tuckered out. Kill sea turtles, and put BP back on track in the public eye. “For the last time, Fweebly, the logic is simple and air-proof,” I say rolling my eyes. “I like killing animals. Sometimes BP kills animals accidentally with oil spills. If I get to them before our oil does, then there will be no animals left to kill.” Fweebly gives me that: “Please sir. I can’t get over any more fences because I’m a little weenie who can’t carry the 400 pounds of sea turtle killing supplies you made me pack.” I gesture to the 15 fences ahead of us before we get to the fence outside the sea turtle exhibit and nod my head derisively. “Two steps backwards, one step forward. You said it yourself Fweebs. This will be great for our company.” “That is not what I meant, sir,” Fweebly says between gasps for breath while I acrobatically clear a fence. “I meant every time we try to do something good, we end up making two mistakes in the process. And this time we’re not even trying to do something good.” “Well if we do this and then one more bad thing, say… a bomb placed.... somewhere, our public relations are bound to take one step forward. Listen, just leave the math to me,” I shout, hopping back and forth over a particularly tall fence just to prove my prowess. MMM

The Harvard Lampoon

WAIT WAIT... DON’T TELL ME! Peter Sagal: Thaaaanks Bill, it’s the week between Christmas and New Year’s and we here at Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me thought it would be fun to do a little recap of the year… let’s invite our first guest Tom to the show! Hey Tom! Tom: Hey Peter, thanks for having me on! Peter: Tom, how was your year? Tom: Thanks Peter, you see everywhere I go people are just kicking each other’s ass, just getting their shit rocked left and right. I was in the Kroger parking lot the other day and some guy had another guy’s head on the curb and he was just stomping… bam bam bam… just going to town on the guy’s skull… BWM

DELIVERY Stapled to the back of this note, you will find your new baby. I hope you have plenty of food because he has been eating me out of house and home. In fact, this is the last piece of paper I own, so I will need it back. If I could also get the staple back, that’d be great. This devil also ate all of my pens, in case you were wondering why this is written ransom-note style. In case he grows up to be something cool, like the president or Michael Jordan, I have already filled out a police report for a stolen baby twenty-five years in advance, so please don’t try any funny business. I know it might seem strange to give my baby away, but I’ve seen this in several movies, and everything always works out for the dad in the end. Citizen Kane, Schindler’s List, Rocky IV, the list goes on. The fence around your house that I had to jump over tells me that you value safety and that’s something I hope you can instill in my sweet Jimmy. On an unrelated note, the dirt coating his face is from when I dropped him while hopping over a different fence. He is, excluding the dirt, relatively clean. And I personally gave him all of his shots this morning. I’m leaving the syringes under the basket, in case you want any of the leftovers. I loved little Jimbo like he was my own, but now he is yours. To quote my father when he left me on a stranger’s porch forty years ago, “Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow. Sorry about your fence.” Take Care, Doorstep Dad ENO

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ANATOMY Please sit two to a cadaver—but no one sit with John. Alright kiddos, the first step of Anatomy class is to forget everything you’ve ever known about anatomy. You think the brain is simply connected to the spine, but as you see when I behead John right here...one second...damn it...why...won’t it...go...OKAY! There’s this blood vessel, that blood vessel, brain matter inside his esophagus, a femur coming right through there. John’s here with us today because he jumped into the back of a garbage truck and was crushed to death. He had no other choice because of his terminal cancer. What the medical school wants me to tell you is to take those scalpels and make a weensy cut down the chest like you’re some lame doctor. But is a clean cut really going to help you if you get a John or a Rachel in the emergency room? Rachel’s parachute never opened and five years later she was trampled by a rampaging bull. Now please take the provided cleavers and just chop the hell out of your cadaver. Don’t gag. That’s just a turkey sandwich. I hope you all understand how complex the human body really is. We’re not in an arm bone connects to the groin connects to the other arm bone kind of world anymore. There are muscles and veins and sometimes the veins are so discolored and weakened by drug use that they look like dead worms. Is our time up already? Please check your mail for the class syllabus and a body part for next week’s puzzle-piecing exercise. AMP

Whenever I hit an obstacle, I always think of Larry The Cable Guy’s inspirational words: “Do the job.”

The Harvard Lampoon

BIRTHDAY POLICE - So you jump out of the cake and do what exactly? - I arrest them. - For? - Being the birthday boy. - Do you do a dance or something? - Sort of. - What’s “sort of a dance?” - I throw loose frosting in their face and club them in the knees. - I think I’m just going to order a regular stripper, sorry. - Yeah that makes sense. People usually don’t like the club. - That and Tim probably wouldn’t want to be arrested on his birthday. MAG

OUTSIDE MICROSOFT HQ Man in Rags: Spare some change? Employee: Sure thing. Man in Rags: Thank you. You’re a good man (looking at Employee ID) David Stein. Employee: Wait, are you… Bill Gates? Man in Rags: Uhhhm...no. I am just a random homeless person. Employee: You’re Bill Gates! Employee 2: Woah. Is that Bill Gates pretending to be a homeless person? Man in Rags: Is this... is this bad? Employee 3: Hey everyone! Bill Gates dressed up as a bum so he can see who’s generous! Man in Rags: Oh, god. Employee 4: Give your money to homeless Bill Gates so he thinks you’re a good person! Employee 5: Employees of Microsoft! Do not give your money to any homeless people besides Mr. Gates! JGS

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MOVIE THEATRE - Excuse me, sir, do you think you could sit somewhere else? - You got a problem with me sitting here? - Well, if you sit right in front of us we won’t be able to see the movie. - And just why is that?! Huh? - Your massive sombrero is blocking our view! - Oh, so now it’s illegal for a guy to wear his sombrero to the movies, huh? A guy can’t just enjoy a night alone with his grandfather’s sombrero? Why can’t you people mind your own goddam business for once! How’d you like it if I just… (pulls out large and shakes it up and down) Huh!? Right in your face? - Dear god! No - Might as we for the whole theatre, eh? Is that what you want!? - Please stop children‼ - And then I like this right up on the ceiling before I… (drops it) ulletproof sombrero? - - And screw

my grandfather died in combat! hink I’m being overdramatic.

SWR

The Harvard Lampoon

ON MY FIRST TIME VIEWING THE KING’S SPEECH The King’s Speech is just one of those movies that makes you wish your VCR could figure out how to play the blu-ray copy of The King’s Speech you have been senselessly jamming into it for the past half hour. In crafting my perfect home theater I admittedly had to skimp on certain amenities: a DVD player here and there, a popcorn machine, electricity. But, with all the savings accrued from these prudent financial decisions, I was able to pay child support and had money to spare to be successfully mugged by the children who congregate on the train tracks above my apartment. Lying on the ground following said mugging, I noticed a shiny disc tucked behind the “Reelect Giuliani” lawn jockey my neighbor insists is art. That disc was the 2011 Remastered Director’s Cut of The King’s Speech. And that day, was the happiest of my life. Despite never viewing the contents of the film per se, I have often experienced the full gambit of emotions cinema can induce in my daily screenings of the label printed on one side of the disc. Always only printed on the one side, never the both. Yet each viewing I discover new delightful subtleties and nuances. Why just yesterday afternoon I noticed there were two big white men on the label! Fascinating. It will come as no surprise that my first viewing of the disc was most special. There I sat, on my pile of photos of couches, face bloodied from a recent mugging accident, and hands tenderly caressing my newfound enchanting shiny circle. “The King’s Speech,” I read aloud, mystically incredulous. And in that moment of untempered awe I for a moment forgot that I was Type I and II diabetic, and fell into a deep, warm, insulinless sleep. MMM

Yee don haw! T ’t ta h lk r ese fa igh ncy t. m

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METEOR The meteor was set to strike Earth sometime in late June. The news broke about it in February, and people totally freaked out for a few days there. But then March Madness started and everyone got distracted until mid-April. By late spring, folks only remembered the impending apocalypse when they saw those “End of Life As We Know It, Everything 30% Off” signs at their local department stores, or when they looked at the sky and made eye-contact with the huge chunk of flaming rock hurtling with inexorable speed and strength toward Earth. The stakes grew higher in early June when people realized that they were actually definitely going to die in twelve days, and that they’d somehow allowed themselves to be distracted from that fact for four consecutive months. Solutions were few and far between. People did the intuitive things, obviously: mutter about how this shit is fucked and not even that fun, and launch forty metric tons of soap into space so that the meteor would—at the very least—not cart any weird germs into the atmosphere. Each night, entire communities would come together to simultaneously throw pebbles at the sky—ever hopeful that someone, somewhere, would have a good enough arm to knock the meteor off-course. What ended up happening most nights is that the rocks fell back down on top of everyone and caused superficial injuries to the face and neck. But on the fateful night on June 22nd, mere hours before the meteor was scheduled to destroy all that humans know and hold dear, a stone was thrown from the hand of a young boy in the suburbs of Williamsburg, VA. Up, up, up, it rose—far into the sky—almost out of sight above people’s heads. And it seemed for a moment that anything was possible, imminently possible. But obviously the pebble came nowhere even close to touching the meteor and everyone on the planet still died later that night. LGF

SES

PED

The Harvard Lampoon

WHO CARES IF HE CAN’T CUM? He got so much sweat on my back that

I can’t even feel the difference. In 2 seconds flat, I’m done being relieved and am half out the door. “Boooooooooooooo,” says a roommate from behind the couch. “Still rolling!” says the roommate under the coffee table. “Baby,” says my lover. “Come on, baby!” says my lover. I turn around. He’s talking to his penis while sucking himself off, or trying to—the limp, flaccid, loose, disgusted penis keeps flopping out of his mouth. “Oopsie!” He tries again, but the penis has flattened itself against his body and refuses to go near that nasty mouth again. And, I get it. When’s the last time there’s been any floss in there? When’s the last time there’s been any soap in there? When’s the last time that mouth has gotten a good, proper talking to? Asshole mouth, motherfucking rotten fish mouth, ugly dog of an otherwise respected family mouth. LDL

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NICKELODEON KIDS’ CHOICE AWARD ACCEPTANCE SPEECH Hi Diane. Ralph Fiennes is very excited that he will be winning the award tonight. As requested, I’m just faxing over a copy of the speech he wrote to you now. Thank you, kids! I’m very grateful for this award. I am aware that the central idea of the Kids’ Choice Awards is that you win the award and then you get slimed, but from the bottom of my heart, I do not want to get slimed. I am very serious. I know that on top of this, many people pretend they do not want to get slimed so that it is even funnier when they do get slimed. I am not one of these people. If you were to slime me, it would be a big mistake. (pull out gun now) Easy. Easy! Kids. Calm. This is a Glock G17. I just wanted to show it to you. (put gun away) It warms my heart that the children of America have given me this award. (green slime falls from ceiling) (wipe slime from face) You want to slime a celebrity? Huh? You want to see what happens when you slime someone? (pull out gun, fire into front row) Children! Children! Calm! It is a slime gun. I have merely slimed the front row. Easy. (autograph gun and throw into audience) Kids, you must stop screaming. It was only slime. I do not hate slime that much. The reason I have done this is because it is of dire importance that we enact sensible gun control right now. (pull out real gun) This is what a real Glock G17 looks like. How scary, kids? Anyone can take one of these anywhere and kill you. Your life will be ended permanently and instantly— (more slime falls from ceiling) This is completely inappropriate. I agreed to pretend to severely not want to get slimed and then to get slimed once as a joke. I then took a serious moment to talk about gun control and I get slimed again for comedic effect? I am just a joke to you?! (put away real gun) (take real gun back out, contemplate gun) (put away real gun)

JGS

THE BEAT GENERATION Jazz flowed from the streets in the 50s. We swam naked in the churches. We prayed in the oceans. We stood around asking when Kerouac would finish that second novel. People stole everything they owned and had everything they owned stolen from them. All anyone owned was a pair of lightly-threaded cutoffs that everyone refused to wear, so our swap-based economy became a public standoff. No one got anything and everyone was cold. Sometimes Kerouac would publish an opening paragraph and redact it the next week. Allen Ginsberg was blacklisted from the south side of Brooklyn for wearing a cardigan. John Lennon tried to strangle Neal Cassady for wearing cloth earrings. Elvis died. We knew there were underground literary salons happening we just didn’t know why or when. Jazz took over the culture in the 50s. While not everyone was named John Coltrane, those who were found immense success because of it. Everywhere you looked there was a famous person named John Coltrane. In hindsight, there may have only been one Coltrane, but he played like a half-dozen, and music will never forgive him for it. Eventually the Beat Generation faded away. Jazz was displaced by the harpsichord and nudity was replaced by taping small rocks over people’s pale parts and charging consumption tax on it. While present generations are nostalgic for the past, the Beat Generation was nostalgic for the present. For this, they’ll always be remembered. That and the Korean War. MAG

KIDS’ CHOICE AWARDS TECH CREW WALKIE TALKIES - Slime the audience in T minus 30 seconds. Over. - Slime? I thought you said to fill the buckets with slop. - Is slop like slime? - Not really. - Can you cancel it? Cancel the slop. - Look man, this audience is about to get slopped. JGS

Smellfungus #

SELECTED POEMS OF ERNIE O’HURTZ

Are ye lookin at me, at me? If thee be lookin at me, I’ll make a little introduction Between yer head and ass

Oh bartender, another drink, oblige this weary drunk. Like a cow to a garden Or a stag to thicket forest What-ho! I join in this altercation

PIDDY POODLE, party poodle

A brawl? A brawl! Aye, a brawl…

[Piddy Poodle, Party Poodle enters, finger guns raised to the sky, green visor pulled low, hair curled and dick hard]

If the stars in the sky were doused Mine penchant for a scuffle would not be snuffed. It would go on I would sacktap in the dark You, over there, calling my star poem gay I’m gonna drink this drink Then use yer mouth ta break yer nose. BWM

Partygoer: Say, Ernie, who the fuck is that? Ernie: That’s Piddy Poodle, party poodle, he’s a poodle that’s famous for… Piddy Poodle: “I’m shutting down this party!” Ernie: ...shutting down parties. Piddy Poodle: [flicks lights on and off] Everybody better leave! BWM

The Harvard Lampoon

THE NEW MEMBERS OF THE HARVARD LAMPOON vs.

[The new members assemble into a staggered corps, ranked according to their special abilities.] [They march against Handor] [Handor swats the business members, smashes the literature members. He pees and defecates on them.] BWM

Oh my spurs!!

Smellfungus #

MY POLITICAL PLATFORM by MJS * We don’t need stronger borders, we need a shittier country. * The only thing Americans have to fear is fear itself. But a very close second is old people touching you and their hands are wet. * Every child should be given the opportunity to succeed, unless that child lies about his Dad being a Navy Seal and says my dad’s mega-gay for being a dentist. * People should never expect a handout. Uncle Sam is not Santa Claus. He’s more like the Easter Bunny. He shits in your yard and your kids have to pick it up. * If you shoot an animal, you are evil. But if you shoot a person, guns are evil. If an animal shoots a person, vegans are evil. * Israel should cease all new settlements immediately. In return, Palestinians should let them come and settle over there. * The worst double standard is that the carvers of Mount Rushmore are celebrated but the doctor in Human Centipede is villified by the popular media. * There are no poor people in America, only those who lack the drive to give a proper blowjob in the bathroom of a Stop n’ Shop.

The Harvard Lampoon

THE ABRAHAM LINCOLN IMPERSONATOR ON 14TH ST. Me: Can you do the “Gettysburg Address?” Abraham Lincoln Impersonator: I’m not an Abraham Lincoln impersonator, sir, this is just how I look. I come to this street corner every day to beg for spare change. Me: (to my girlfriend) Lincoln didn’t sound like that. * * * Me: Say, how much do you make standing out here? Abraham Lincoln Impersonator: On a good day, maybe 50 dollars? Me: You deserve more than that! Abraham Lincoln Impersonator: When given the opportunity, few people have the courage to help a less fortunate man. Me: You’d think people would pay thousands to see a professional Abraham Lincoln impersonator. Abraham Lincoln Impersonator: Perhaps, but I’m not an Abraham Lincoln impersonator. It seems you’re confusing my homely appearance with that of the former president. Me: Honestly, I could probably do this job better than you.

If you think Osama Bin Laden was bad, you should meet his wife. She’ll let you know from experience that he was very bad. TAF

* * * Me (Impersonating Abraham Lincoln): A house divided against itself cannot stand. Abraham Lincoln Impersonator: Please do that somewhere else, sir. Cop: Alright, break it up you two. One Abraham Lincoln impersonator per street. Guy Who Just Got New Glasses: Huh? I’m seeing double! Guy Who’s Starting To Sober Up: Whoa… I think I’m drunker than I thought. U.S. History Teacher On A Field Trip: Look away, children. Jezebel Reporter: So turns out this “beggar” is just another greedy billionaire who likes to impersonate Abraham Lincoln. Disgraceful! Guy Who’s High On Crack: I am being followed by Lincolns. Guy Who Wrote A Boring Book About Lincoln: Everybody is celebrating my book! Jock: Hey losers, the Nerd Convention ended last week! Cop: Did one of you say you were on crack. SWR

Smellfungus #

ASHES - Well hereeeee you go Mrs. Johnson—your very own son’s ashes. - Why, doctor, these ashes smell a bit… fishy. - Haha, you dumb bastard. Do you kiss your son with that mouth? ‘Cause that’s very much who you’re holding. - Doctor, this is…

EARLIER IN THIS PIECE - Doctor I finished burning that beach kid. - You did it all the way this time? - Yep, to a crisp. No saliva left this time. Burned the shit out of him. He’s dead now if not before. - Good because that was really gross when you gave me the ashes last time and it was just like a bag of spit. Got the ashes with you? - Yup got ‘em right here in my trusty reusable tote. - Whoa there, how big was this kid? This is easily five things of ashes. - See, the kid was brought from the beach with this shark latched onto him. And I thought the shark was pregnant ‘cause it was so huge, so I cut it open and there were easily, and I’m not even shitting you doc, several other sharks attached to this kid that I hadn’t noticed. - Don’t tell me you burned them. We can’t keep giving people animal ashes or animals alive. - Come on doc, of course not—if you’d let me finish, I was going to burn them with the kid and give them to the mom and lie about it and continue giving people animals for the rest of my life, but the sharks finished eating him as I held him in my hands, so I just had a palm full of sharks and no kid. - No one is ever going to have your job here again. - Boy was my face red, doc, believe me. - I’m firing you and deleting this job. - Anyway I ate the sharks and crushed up a bunch of drywall and aspirin, that’s what’s in my tote. - This lady expects her son on her desk by the end of the day. What are we gonna do? - Well I have some cat litter in my office, we could kill her other son and burn him instead. - Helloooooo, doctorrrrrr? - Oh crud it’s his mom, oh man, oh shoot, awwww fuck. We can’t give her this dust you brought. - Alright I’ll dump out the dust and lay in the bag and pretend to be her son (door opens) - Well hereeeee you go Mrs. Johnson—your very own son’s ashes. - Why, doctor, these ashes smell a bit… fishy. - Haha, you dumb bastard. Do you kiss your son with that mouth? ‘Cause that’s very much who you’re holding. - Doctor, this is… - (blinking real fast) Is something wrong? - …Incredible. They look just like him. Thank you so much. This is going on the mantle with the others. JFAR

The Harvard Lampoon

WHILE THE TITANIC IS SINKING John: Let’s put on these dresses. They’re only letting women on the escape boats. Miles: No no I’ll take my chances. Captain: You two women! Get on this escape boat! Miles: Sorry sir! You’re mistaken. I’m not a woman. Captain: Just as well. Get on the boat and live my good man! Miles: No no, that’s for girls but thank you. JGS

MARCO POLO travelled the world trading spices, documenting his experiences. Today, I entered the city of Kashgar. Rumors preceded the fantastic spice shops that littered the streets, and my taste buds danced in anticipation. What new mysteries might my tongue uncover? Without hesitation, I approached a vendor. He handed me a small jar, and I removed a flake and placed it in my mouth. “Yucky spicy,” I said, impressed by what I’d just tasted. “Too hot, ouch! No like,” I remarked. If this was merely the first stop on my tour of Kashgarian spices, I was in for a marvelous adventure. I proceeded to the next booth and was handed an interesting green flake. Excitedly, I consumed it. “Ow ow owwww. Milk. Need milk!!! Eww. I miss my mom. I need my mom. I love my dad too but I miss my mom right now.” Unbelievable. Simply exquisite. I never dreamed that I would stumble into spice heaven. But there was still one more spice I had to try. The rare Malagashi Pepper. This was the only place in the world I could acquire it. A small, nondescript booth on the outskirts of town gave me what I needed. “Gross. This is so gross.” The vendor looked at me with an inquisitive smile. “It’s not even hot it just tastes like shit.” I was so excited I could scarcely contain it. “My cousin is a garbage truck man with long hair. Do you play Yu-Gi-Oh? I have a cell phone.” While my stay in Kashgar was pleasant, it is time to move on. Still ahead is Lanzhou, and many more cities before I lay my weary head to rest. HJH

THROWING A DART AT A MAP AND TRAVELING TO WHEREVER IT LANDS - (throws dart) - Ahhh!!! - (taking off blindfold) Alright! Where we going? - You hit my eye! - Oh dang, my bad. - I… I think I’m blind. - Well… on the bright side, looks like we’re going to (throws another dart) Italy! - I can still see with the other eye, dude. That’s Compton. SWR

The Harvard Lampoon

Tarnation!!

FIRE DEPARTMENT TOUR Fire Chief: And this here’s where we do our laundry—(alarm goes off) Oof, sorry kids, that means there’s a fire somewhere. We’re gonna have to take this. Kids: Can we come! Fire Chief: No. (slides down pole) Kids: … Teacher: … Kids: … Fenton: Psst! Cawson. Carson: What do you want, crap head? Fenton: I twiple dog dawe you to buwn down duh fiyo depawment. Carson: No way. Fenton: Samanta. Hey Samanta! Samantha: Get away from me. Fenton: Okay. Hey Gwegowy! Hey. Gregory: What. Fenton: If we stawt a fiyo wight hewe duh fiyofitos will have to come back and finish duh touw. Gregory: Yes, and den we get to watch dem put out duh big fiyo. Fenton: Okay, so hewe we go. Gregory: Caweful wit my pwopane. Fire Chief: (returning) Okay sorry about that, just a normal part of being a firef—hey you two, get down from there. Anyways, where was I? There’s only two machines but they’re both washer/dryer so two of us can do a load at the same time. SWR

Smellfungus #

AIRPORT SECURITY

- Right this way ladies. - Excuse me! This is the 5th group of hot young coeds you’ve let go ahead of me. I’ve been waiting here an hour! - I gotta keep the ratios up, man. - Our flight leaves in 20 minutes! - I can let your daughter and your wife through, but that’s it. - This is my mother, not my wife. - Ooh in that case nevermind.

Hi, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to take that off. Yes, sir. All the way, sir. Higher. Higher. Higher. No, I’m not trying to do some kind of visual gag where the belt ends up around your neck and we all have a good chuckle at your expense. No, sir. It was your decision to remove your belt this way instead of just unbuckling it, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Have a safe flight.

SWR

LGF

ST. LOUIS CHILDREN’S THEATRE PRODUCTION COMPANY Hello kids, thanks for coming out to audition. First, a little bit about me. My unrelenting passion for children’s theater began when I was cast in the double-role of both Dorothy and the Tin Man in my synagogue’s youth theater production of The Dorothy and Tin Man of Oz, The Timeless Tale You Know And Love but It’s Just Dorothy and the Tin Man. As I delivered my last line: “There’s no place like home, but I’m from Kansas and I’m also assembled from used car parts,” I clicked my bedazzled slipper three times against the insulation tubes and packets of reflective Capri-Sun pouches duct-taped to my other foot. I was struck by the realization that youth theater was my home. You see, I grew up in a theatrical family. Theater runs in my blood, like sickle-cell anemia, and shards of insulation tube, and other people’s blood, which reminds me how truly touched I am to see you all are here. My mother was a playwright best known for the “fictional” musical: The Dorothy and Tin Man of Oz, The Timeless Tale You Know And Love but It’s Just Dorothy and the Tin Man. Perhaps that rings a bell. You may recall how the concept was stolen and made into a clearly-plagiarized major motion picture, Annie Get Your Gun, based on the scene in The Dorothy where Dorothy has a gun. Other memorable scenes include when Dorothy and the Tin Man skip/clank down the yellow brick road, when Dorothy and the Tin Man swim/sink in the Emerald City lake, and when Dorothy and the Tin Man realize that they will die as they lived: solely in the imaginations of myself, my mother, and our audience member. The most challenging scene, logistically, was the one with the flying monkeys. That’s because there were no flying monkeys, because the only characters were Dorothy and the Tin Man. This would have complicated the plot but thankfully the way my mother wrote it there was no plot. Another scene I struggled with was the sex scene, which really messed with my head. I’ve been aroused exclusively by steel tubing and electrical wiring, lamp posts, toasters, refrigerators, gates, pennies, tanks, cars, pots and pans, saxophones, dental oh my god yes, dental, oh, god, yes, mm, aaahh dental scrapers, bike frames, pencil sharpeners, guitar strings, industrial castings, and steel wool my entire life. Kids, this has been a difficult decision. But I’ve decided to cast myself as the Tin Man and Taylor can be Dorothy. Let’s begin some method acting. “Oh dear, I appear to be lacking a heart.” Ok Taylor, come over here. I’ll hook you up to the microphone pack and the intravenous blood draw. PKS

Smellfungus #

2019 WORLD EXPO - Attention please, the presentation by Tajikistan will begin in 5 minutes. (20 minutes later) - Ladies and gentlemen, please make your way to the auditorium for the presentation by Tajikistan. (20 minutes later) - Ladies and gentlemen, the President of Tajikistan wrote a poem about climate change and he knows that might sound boring to some of you but he’ll be very frustrated if not a single person comes to his presentation. (20 minutes later) - The President of Tajikistan has flown back to Tajikistan, but he’d like to thank you all for a wonderful expo. - Whoa, not so fast there. Kosovo isn’t a recognized country. - Please, our scientists discovered a new treatment for HIV. - Hahaha but not smart enough to make your own country, huh? Announcer: This is BLOOPY, Toyota’s newest robot personal assistant! BLOOPY: Nice... to... meet... you... Audience: Aww! Announcer: And this is the savant who figured out the most ethical way to slaughter robots so they don’t feel pain when we harvest their batteries. Savant: Nice... to... meet... you......... folks... Audience: (hesitant applause) - And now the Albanian military will demonstrate their latest weapons. - Wait, if the military’s here, who’s defending Albania?! - Oh no!! North Macedonian War Hawk: (on phone) Guys, I have amazing news. SWR

The Harvard Lampoon

THE MODERN BISEXUAL When the first bisexual was discovered by renowned paleontologist Dr. Taraji Cohen people didn’t know what to say. Common responses were “It just looks like bones,” and “I think you just dug up bones, Taraji,” but there was no doubting the gaping holes in this skeleton were being used for something a little sexier than as framework for muscle. Today’s bisexual isn’t quite so easily locked into a one-paragraph synopsis due to their labelless tendencies and shape shifting capabilities. It takes about five. When a young man has stolen bisexual Jon away from his girlfriend for the evening and finds himself ankle deep making love to a gaseous being it calls into question what exactly we are as a species and why we were attached to these labels in the first place. We’re all trying to fit into some sort of social role with these trends because in all honesty, we’re scared to be alone. If buying a mattress pad or subscribing to the Talmud doesn’t make you feel like you belong, what will? Bisexuality. Bisexuality will. Bisexuality is a lot like the feeling you get when no one has spoken to you for months because of your intolerance for “community” and constant intentional mispronouncing of the word “labia.” It’s confusing. This shouldn’t scare anyone, however, because the modern bisexual doesn’t care about descriptions or where they’ll get their next meal. Sexuality is a spectrum, and if you fall on it, great, but if you don’t, there’s always dyeing your hair. They seem to have the same effect. MAG

Smellfungus #

- You look good, Demitri. Did you lose weight? - 30 pounds. - You definitely lost more than that. - No, sorry. It’s just the 30 pounds. - You used to look like a blimp, man. That can’t be true. JGS

“UM, YOU CAN’T SING” Hello and welcome to the first and only singing competition to feature solely mean judges. Judge #1: That was so bad I think my ears are bleeding. Contestant: Wait, are your ears actually bleeding? Judge #3: Yes, idiot. Judge #2: We’re all bleeding. Contestant: Someone call an ambulance, I think she’s having a stroke! Judge #2: (keeps bashing face on the big buzzer that makes all the chairs spin) Judge #1: (puts another lightbulb in mouth) Judge #2: So, shit bird, what do you do for a living? Contestant: I’m an ER doctor. Judge #3: Good, you make it to the next round. We’ll need you. Contestant: Don’t you want me to sing? Judge #1: No. Get the fuck out. Judge #3: That was not very good. Judge #1: (whole head blows up) TAF

The Harvard Lampoon

AFTER THE LAST FEMALE TORTOISE OF LONESOME GEORGE’S SPECIES DIED Female Fox: Hey Lonesome George, mind if I dome you up real quick? Lonesome George: You can try. Female Crab: I’m going to fuck your brains out. Lonesome George: There’s really no point. Female Crab: I’m gonna make you cum buckets. Lonesome George: Do you have to? Female Tortoise: Scientists say that I’m a close enough species to yours that if we mated, there’s a chance I could carry your kids. Lonesome George: Would you mind just blowing me for now?

LONESOME GEORGE DOES BATTLE WITH HIS EVIL TWIN LOENSOM GYORG - HAVE AT THEE, GYORG. - (Gyorg stares at the ground, and then smiles) - Gyorg? - (Gyorg begins to clap, slowly) - You menace—you curr. What have you done? - (Gyorg laughs quietly) - Gyorg, you will put an end to this right now! - (Gyorg’s laughter increases to a cackle) - GYORG! - (Gyorg reveals that it was himself and not a female tortoise in George’s last sexscapade) - GYOOOOOOOOOOORGGGGGGG!

LONESOME GEORGE MEETS ACCOMPANIED JOSH Josh: So what’s it like to be so lonely? I imagine— Tom: You da man Josh! Josh: I imagine— Jess: Love you Josh! Josh: Is it hard to— Peter: Josh! Josh: Sorry there are a lot of people around me at all— Lilly: Yo fuck this lonely guy, Josh! JFAR JGS

Smellfungus #

HALF DAY Good afternoon, parents. Principal Mueller here calling to inform you that your student has been released from classes for the rest of today. I realize that half days are usually reserved for major events like Yom Kippur, Scott Bennett’s dad’s funeral, both, or when Timothy Jernigan is glued to the roof of the gym, but you’ll never guess what happened: Timmy Jernigan was glued to the roof of the gym again. This may feel like an inconvenience to you, but know it’s an even bigger inconvenience to us: we can’t remember how we got him down last time. While my concern for his health is present, so is my interest in how he’ll fare in the free-fall. The physics department has a running bet with the janitorial staff that they’ll be able to clean up the mess in under thirty minutes, and the biology department eagerly anticipates the dissection. We don’t want him to fall, but we would like to see it. As we wait for the boy’s descent, we’ve begun an investigation into who could have done this. Jernigan’s primary bullies—Mike Argyle, Mark Sinclair, David Atkinson, Chuck Shooler, Leslie Manhattan, James Teigan Jr., James Teigan Sr., Mrs. Teigan, Doyle Eltonson, Nick Minchin, Mick Ninchin, Ninchin Chinmicknin, Steve Robinson, the varsity hockey team, the varsity baseball team, the junior varsity football team, the varsity football, Mayor Hoskins, the 1980 U.S Olympic ski team, Ted Danson’s character in CSI, Handlebar the Hooligan, the Westborough Street Gang, the Eastborough Street Gang, the Northborough Street Tween Coalition, the School Board, the Superintendent’s office, crossing guard Mario, Wheelchair Cary, No-Wheelchair Kyle, Walks-Fine Randall, The Burleson County Student Magician Collective, The Chess Society, The Mathletes, The Calculator Club, the admins of www. kidsstucktothings.com/timmyjernigan, the lunch ladies, the “Student Formerly Known As Steve Robinson,” Scott Bennett’s dad, the student protest movement known as “The Fringe,” Spike the Janitor, Anonymous, Clark Sandwich, Chum Baldman, James Murphy, Blake McCormick: former showrunner of Cougar Town, the police, the kids Timmy refers to as his “boys,” Coach Maverick, Coach Leslie, Coach Gomer, Steve Robinson, his direct and extended family, and myself—have all been questioned in relation to the prank, but no evidence has come forth. I would like to clarify that while I have been known to post Timmy’s wimpy diary entries to the lunchroom bulletin, my past victimization of him in no way affects my investigation into this incident. Have a good afternoon. MAG

The Harvard Lampoon

Hello, Sharks. Welcome to the future. I have finally invented a way to bring print media into the digital age. I present to you, a portable digest for geniuses like me that’s basically an 8.5x11 page of QR codes linking to podcasts that I door-drop around my neighborhood every afternoon. I will give you 100% ownership if one of you switches lives with me.

GENIUSES’S DIGEST

Vol. I, No. XXXXIIII

Printed digital newsletter magazine (patent pending)

Because of this, he only attracted weirdos who couldn’t afford anything nicer than a $14 attic. The first guest was a Priest, who enjoyed spreading the gospel of his Lord. The second was a Pedophile, who enjoyed touching children. Unfortunately, Jester’s landlords had recently started paying the local Hell’s Angels to patrol his building every night on their hogs, and they were always lookin’ for fellas to rough up. “Whatever you do, do not let these Hell’s Angels find you sleeping here,” Jester told them as he tucked them into bed. “Zzzzzzzzz,” snored the Pedophile and the Priest. Jester, Ibis, and Blot were sitting on the floor in the dark. People walking by kept tripping over them. “I’m the angel on your shoulder,” Blot said to Ibis. “I’ll guide you in the right direction.” “And I’m the devil,” said Jester. “I’m really fucking cool. Now tase me and don’t stop until I blackout.” Ibis shrugged and tased him. When he regained consciousness, Jester was on a different continent, living under a different name, and was a few inches taller thank god. Jester, Pedophile, and Priest walked into a bar. “Let’s have a night!” said the Priest. “Can you believe how much I love tiny boys!” said the Pedophile. Jester ordered three shots of Maker’s, and they settled down in a nice corner where they could stand awkwardly against a wall and pretend to be aloof. Jester finally broke the ice and asked what they did for work. “Well, I’m a paranoid schizophrenic,” said the Priest. “And I’m a human rights attorney,“ said the Pedophile. Jester suddenly had to pee, and like always he opted to take the trek back to his house where he could pee in solitude. He left the Priest and the Pedophile at the bar and immediately forgot they had ever existed. As he scanned his face into his front door’s new facial recognition software, he was delighted to hear a bangin’ party happening upstairs! But when he got to the dance floor he saw it was just Blot alone. He had torn off his clothes and was smashing everything in sight. “WHY DON’T ANY OF YOU MOTHERFUCKERS PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH!!!” Blot screamed over and over as a steady stream of shit spewed from his ass. Jester cheered him on and started lighting fireworks off their antique dining table, figuring someone else would clean it all up later. The next morning the Priest called Jester in a panic. “I think the Hell’s Angels were trying to kill me last night.” Jester flipped out, certain he had been caught. “Yes, I heard them from the attic, screaming and stomping around and smashing things,” the Priest trembled. “And there was this horrible stench of shit.” Jester chuckled. “You’re just being paranoid, Priest. That was actually me and—” “And then one of the Hell’s Angels grew horns and a tail and threatened to kill me because I’m the real life Harry Potter and Superman and Neo from The Matrix.” Jester gulped. “Now THAT’S a dumb Priest,” he told the man of God. Jester, Ibis, and Blot had stolen a million dollars from a gay Sultan and spent the money on a tropical vacation to Nicaragua. Ibis smoked some crack (which anyone could buy legally at the local pharmacy) and went skinny-dipping into the bay. “Come on!” she yelled to her friends, tweakin’ out. Jester and Blot looked at each other. “I can’t do that, I’m way too bashful,” Jester said. “Me too,” said Blot. “But hey… it’s just the lads here.” So they ditched their clothes and splashed in the water, and Ibis mocked them incessantly for their teenie peepees. Jester noticed something sitting up in the trees—a beautiful flash of red. “Is that you, Ibis? You don’t usually look this hot.” “Fuck off,” said Ibis standing next to him, her usual un-hot self. The flash of red swooped down and landed in Jester’s arms. “¡Hueeeevos dias chiquitos! I am the Ibis Escarlata. ¡Jajajaja!” she chirped. “Jajajajaja!” said Jester, way too loud and weird. Jester, Ibis Escarlata, and Blot were having a dance party and having a blast. There was no way this night could get any better. Unless… “Do you chicos have any wacky costumes?” said the Ibis Escarlata. “D-d-d-d-duh DOY! You’re lookin’ at the wacky costumes kings!!” said Blot, opening up the wacky costume closet and putting on just the silliest coat ever. The three of them put on a fashion show for each other and howled with laughter. But suddenly from far away they heard the roar of the Hell’s Angels revving their hogs up the spiral staircase and into the room, followed by a fuming Ibis. “Here they are, officers! Shut this party down!” she said. “We’re not really ‘officers,’ ma’am, we’re just guys who love motorcycles and own guns.” Ibis was not paying attention, as she had already slunk into a corner and downed a bottle of Maker’s.

A COLLECTION OF FABLES Jester, Ibis, and Blot sat on their front stoop, blasting party bangers 1,000 decibels above the legal limit while staring blankly into space, slack-jawed and silent. Most people walking by did a double take at their house. A few even came up and asked what it was and what the hell it was doing in the middle of a busy highway. “It’s a youth hostel,” Blot would lie as Ibis snickered behind him. The vast majority of people were only intrigued for a moment however, then they moved on with their lives and left the trio behind in their frozen, empty stupor. Occasionally a tiny bird would land in front of them and they would cheer, and this obviously scared it away every time. Jester, Ibis, and Blot sat at the dinner table for another fancy dinner party when suddenly multi-million-dollar heiress Willyhemina Hess dropped dead! “Hue hue hue,” said Jean Pierre Baguette. “Clearly one of us is ze murderer… but who?” “H’well cain’t be little ol’ me,” said Herb Dix, the old know-nothin’ farmer. “I’m just an old know-nothin’ farmer who don’t want no trouble.” “Wa wa wa I’m scared!” cried Presley Milkboy, the wimpy milk delivery boy who cried all the time. Jester pointed out a disheveled man in a trench coat. “Maybe it was Lieutenant Gun?” he suggested. But the sudden attention reminded Lieutenant Gun about his PTSD from Vietnam and he shot his brains out. “Okay so that only leaves Humphrey Brambles, Baxter Utz, and Clark Sandwich,” Jester said. The three burly men suddenly cackled, revealed their stolen diamonds, and bolted out of the room. Jean Pierre Baguette broke the silence. “Come Presley, we must finish our French lesson,” he said, smiling as an erect baguette formed inside his pants. Jester woke up on the floor of his business office in the middle of the afternoon. Must’ve been a big night. Blot was in the corner lighting matches and reciting his dumb poems. Jester noticed a special match on a shelf, and when he lit it, magic fairies filled the room. They gazed into the flame for a while until Blot finally asked what it was. “A stick of dynamite I think.” “D-d-ddynamite?!?” Blot shouted. The whole place blew up and Jester and Blot sproinged up from the rubble all frazzled and covered in soot. They laughed like crazy. Jester opened up a bed ‘n breakfast in his attic and was kind enough to only charge $14 a night.

Jester had been triple-sexiled—meaning all three of his roommates were getting laid tonight— so he and Blot went to Hong Kong, their favorite Chinese restaurant. “Whoa, this doesn’t seem like the right Hong Kong,” Blot said as they waded through a sea of naked ladies. Jester sat down at a table and asked a waiter for an order of crab rangoons. “¡Mira a este Palestino farfulla como idiota!” the guy yelled to the other waiters, who hooted and hollered at Jester and would only stop if he paid them each a dollar bill. Jester got up to leave, but froze when he suddenly saw the mirrored image of him and Blot sitting at another table across the room, only 25 years in the future and speaking backwards like that funny leprechaun from Twin Peaks. He was touched by the clear long-lasting friendship between the two, and he admired the surprising confidence they had as they sat in this unusually dangerous Chinese restaurant. The only thing Jester didn’t like was the fact that his future self was a dumpy old man, and Blot’s was a leprechaun like that one from Twin Peaks. “10 more scorpion bowls, please!” the dumpy man yelled. When he noticed Jester and Blot, he beckoned them over to his table. “We’re actually on our way out,” Jester said. “Nope! You’re not leaving without me, and let me be clear: I plan to stay here for a long time.” Jester reluctantly pulled up a chair. “One red flannel hash, please,” he sighed. Jester, Dumpy Man, and Blot stumbled down the street in the wee small hours of the morning. “So is this my peak?” Jester drunkenly slurred to his future self. “When do I get all disgusting like you?” “I’m 23, dude,” the dumpy man said. “Oh fuck,” he suddenly groaned, pulling his futuristic robo-sapien hologram phone out of his paunch. “My daughter—oh by the way you have a daughter and she’s really disabled—fell asleep and can’t let me into my hotel room.” He looked at Jester with foggy puppy-dog cataracts. “It’s fine, you can stay with me for the night,” Jester sighed, and they began their Walk of Shame back to Jester’s house. Jester used to improvise at the piano so beautifully that there would not be a single dry eye in the room. And when he finished he would cackle to himself and scream, “You’re all fools! Who can live among such spoiled children!” His audience hated this of course, and grumbled out of the concert hall, still sniffling and wiping their eyes. And when Jester was alone at the piano,

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his tears would soak into the wood and cause the instrument to expand, and all the keys would squeeze together so that you couldn’t press them down one at a time; you had to press all of them down at once. And this obviously sounded like trash. And sometimes as Jester would fall asleep, he would criticize himself for being a meaningless, ventilated sack of meat propelled by involuntary huffing and puffing that would ultimately take him to some arbitrary height and then submerge him permanently into the earth, where it would be dark and tight and heavy and cold and hot all at once. And 1 out of every 20 times Jester would be filled with hope by the thought that maybe 100 years from now some of his meat particles would slowly bind to some of the surrounding dirt particles, and his gases would crawl higher and higher up the molecular ladder until they finally broke through and blossomed into a flower gasping for air, blessed with the gift of respiration once again. The other 19 times, Jester would be filled with despair, knowing that even if this happened he wouldn’t be able to appreciate it. Jester woke up and went to take a shower. “There’s a line,” his roommates and their girlfriends said. Eventually he heard the water shut off and the old dumpy man shuffled out of the bathroom. “It’s all yours, kids!” he said. Jester, Ibis, and Blot were huddled around the campfire while Jester told his favorite ghost story: It was Friday the 13th. Jester was closing up shop in the haunted slaughterhouse. “Just another uneventful day, I guess,” the wind howled at him. Suddenly at the stroke of midnight, he heard a sharp rap on the door. Knock knock knock! Knock knock knock! The door creaked open to reveal… the Ibis Escarlata!? But something was off about her… she was… a… g-g-gghost!!! She uttered her cryptic riddle: “Phoenix is dead, Owl is dust, wanna hang?” And with her invisible phantom hand, she placed a golden fedora on Jester’s head and he collapsed. “This story clearly never happened,” Ibis interrupted. “Please stop telling this story about me,” said the Ibis Escarlata. Jester always schlocked up his words and acted like an absolute yuk-a-puk when he talked to people. “Yknow, I don’t believe love is real,” he’d say to the Ibis Escarlata when they made love. “Yknow, there’s no real obligation to be nice to your friends,” he’d say to Blot when they were hangin’ with the lads. Luckily he had that kind of voice where everything he said sounded like a joke, so no one ever took him seriously. The only time this ever had any real consequence was when he tried to tell people about the bloodthirsty wolf running around the village, and when he tried to run for office. Jester traveled to Washington D.C. to sell a joke program for the inauguration of the next president (an absolute JOKE of a president! How bou dah!). A senator came up to Jester’s booth. “I don’t agree with your diehard support of the 2nd Amendment. But your satire of Trump is just spot-on!” “Huh? That wasn’t about Donald Trump,” said Jester. “But all this stuff about ‘Cheeto man’ and ‘anti-Semitic demagogue,’ who else could you possibly be talking about?” Jester started pacing. “Well I don’t really like to talk about this… but I was born with a twin. A hideous, bungled, festering, disfigured teratoma fused to my neck. The doctors cut it off and tossed it in the dumpster, but nobody could have predicted that this monster would be raised by garbage and eventually crawl out of the landfill 18 years later as a bitter, spiteful troll who chose to spend every waking moment trying to assassinate me.” By now the senator had already wandered off, but Jester continued: “Her name? Jesdurr.” Jesdurr, Ibis, and Blot were canoeing down the river. Because Jesdurr was unquestionably the fattest, she sat in the back and therefore steered the boat. She also had taken all the oars for herself and made Ibis and Blot wear paper bags over their heads so she would be known as the “Canoe Girl Who Steered The Canoe.” Jester spotted them and tried to warn them about the upcoming waterfall, but quickly became apathetic and distracted by a tiny bird. Luckily, Jesdurr only smashed the boat directly into a rock, Ibis drowned, Blot near-drowned and became the “r” word, and Jesdurr sold the rights to the story to the Ku Klux Klan, who had just made the jump from film to TV believe it or not! Obviously Jester was arrested for being an inactive bystander. One day in prison, he got a note in the mail from Jesdurr. “Let’s be pals,” it said. “And I thought I was the autistic one!” thought Jester, ripping up the paper. Jester opened up that morning’s parody newspaper, where he got his daily parody news. “Breaking: Poop Poop Poop And Kiss My Dad,” read the top headline. Jester threw his mug of Maker’s at the wall. “I EVER TELL YOU ABOUT THE TIME I MADE THREE PARODY NEWSPAPERS!?” he slammered to the empty room. He kept reading, as a sort of masochistic prank on himself. “This just in, infamous terrorist Jesdurr has claimed responsibility for the shooting of a gay man at a club for fancyboys.” “But that was my terrorist attack,” he whimpered. And for the first time, Jester understood why some people choose to throw themselves off of tall buildings. Jester decided to go to Blot’s stand-up show, hoping it would take his mind off the things that made him sad. “Normal people walk like this!” Blot exclaimed, doing the normal person walk. “But Jester walk like THIS!” The crowd went wild. Jester fought back tears. “Nothing is real,” he texted Ibis alone in his room later that night. “Nothing is real except math,” she replied. Jester left his kingdom and meditated under the Beechwood tree for hours and hours and hours and hours. He sat there lost in thought for so long that his eyes rolled back into his head, his body shriveled up, his bones melted through his skin and cemented him to the ground. Friends passing by assumed he was having a seizure. When he started speaking in tongues they assumed he was just crazy. Regardless, they all unanimously agreed to not call an ambulance. Jester didn’t notice them; he renounced the material world and stretched himself thin until he had planted a leg in both ends of history. He witnessed caveman times and robot apocalypse times and found them equally horrifying. He tried to break out. He willed himself to race upwards toward the light, and desperately shook off every force that tried to pull him back down to darkness, but the closer he approached the endpoint the further away it seemed. He spun in big spirals that became small spirals that became HUGE spirals, and soon he couldn’t even tell which direction he was spinning in. Everything in the universe suddenly made sense to him and he screamed. When he finally opened his eyes, he had transcended his body and arrived in Heaven. God was standing in the corner, making ramen. Jester approached. “So great to meet you, God. I’m a huge fan.”

“The name’s Allah actually, but you can call me Al!” Jester cringed. “Welcome to The Good Place season 4, baby!” God showed Jester around His sacred paradise. All his idols were there! And standing at the holy bar was Dizzy Gillespie himself!! Jester humbly walked up to his hero. “You’re such an incredible inspiration,” he said. Dizzy reacted to the compliment pretty autistically, which both relieved Jester and stressed him out. “Diz, can you tell me about the years you ran an underground dog fighting ring?” “No no, dog racing,” Dizzy said, sweating. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit were showing Jester Their collection of Simpsons action figures, when God suddenly looked at His watch. “Oh jeez, I was supposed to meet this dweeb named Presley Milkboy for coffee an hour ago. You wanna take over for a while?” And before Jester could say “Absolutely not,” He put the holy crown on Jester’s head and scurried off. Jester quickly realized this felt pretty good. He could have anything he wanted at the snap of a finger. The angels copied his words and movements, though it always seemed lamer when it came from them and not him. Beneath him, he saw a young kid sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor. The child reminded Jester of himself, and he felt a narcissistic need to protect it. “Wouldn’t you like to be made in my own image?” he asked. The child shook its head. Then something snapped and Jester spoke in a deep voice he had never known before. “On your knees, fool. Thank me for all I have given you. Blind fool without eyes within your soul, worship the Bird that flies without wings!” The kid sobbed uncontrollably. Jester felt invincible and wanted to terrorize even more, but the kid ran out before Jester could say everything he wanted. By now, Jester was loopy with power. “Oy, Dizzy!” he shouted across the infinite space. “Did you know Israel bombs Palestinian kids every morning? And they’re supposed to be the good guys!!” Dizzy tried to excuse himself but Jester blocked him from leaving. “Off to the big dog fight, eh old pal??” Jester slurred. “Fuck dogs!” He lobbed a chair out the window and killed an angel (dying in Heaven sends you to mega-Heaven, which is Hell). The crowd erupted into a psychotic riot and demanded Jester be brought to justice. “Crucify that fucker!” they chanted in a very hip syncopated rhythm. Gulp! God returned and saw the destruction Jester had caused. “What the… what the hell is this?!” the Lord commanded. Jester looked up at God’s towering figure and lost his balance. “You think this behavior is acceptable?” He bellowed. “I’m banishing you back down to Earth. Never return here again!” God smote Jester with all-powerful lightning and his soul fell a million feet backwards, tumbling into his withered corpse left in a heap under the Beechwood tree. “I guess the old saying is true,” Jester thought. “Don’t meet God.” Jester lay in bed with Ibis Escarlata, trying to make her laugh with silly stories from his life. She found none of them funny and all of them despicable. He tried showing her the photos he had from Blot’s naked rampage all those nights ago. “Wait, why are you also naked in this picture?” she asked. “No no, that’s not important,” he said. Jester called a press conference, but at the last moment he switched out with Jeff Ross! The Roastmaster General proceeded to roast the shit out of Jesdurr sitting in the front row. “But I thought we made amends,” she later cried to Jester. “What about the olive branch you gave me?” Jester tried to remember what she was talking about. “Ohhhh, I was on crack when I did that! Just because I don’t respect you doesn’t mean I can’t pity you when I’m on crack.” Ibis pulled him aside. “Come on, man. Are you seriously still bitter about this?” “Bitterhardlyknewher,” Jester wheezed, before falling down a flight of stairs. Jester was writing a dumb-o joke-book about rude tourists, so he brought Ibis and Blot on a trip to a tropical island so they could research how to be assholes to poor people. In reality they were too lazy to go out and actually do anything, so they spent all day inside their fortress, prank-calling taxi drivers and getting them to crash their taxis into each other. There was a famous Cave down the street that was supposed to be cool but Jester didn’t want to visit because the symbolism would’ve been too beautiful. It was supposed to be another lavish, uneventful vacation. But unbeknownst to Jester, the locals had made a national pastime out of shitting in the water supply, and when a person drank it a parasite covered in shit would enter the person’s bloodstream and drill holes in their brain. Pretty soon Jester, Ibis, and Blot were being Ratatouille’d by the parasite to act like absolute heathens. Jester knew something was off but couldn’t articulate it, and he wasn’t sure if this was how they had always acted and if he was the only one who thought it was weird. “Stop it! Stop the madness!” Jester screamed. “Wozzopnin!” they screamed back hundreds of times. Jester ran into the streets and didn’t look back. It suddenly began to rain, and all the cars and mopeds in the streets were swept up by a flash flood. Jester tried to outrun the storm and get to higher ground, knowing deep down it was all his fault. None of this destruction would have happened if he hadn’t come to the island. His aimless sprinting finally brought him to the edge of a forest. When he looked back from where he came, he saw a massive field of grass that sloped down for miles until it broke off into the ocean. He bent over to catch his breath. And from far away he heard the steady pulse of drums rolling toward him, as if the hidden rhythms that always underscored his life were finally being exposed for him to see. He heard a voice sing a melody that he had always known in his head, but never heard sung out loud until now. And as it Doppler’d closer and closer, he no longer heard the music but felt it from inside his skull. A dove had landed on his head. She sprayed him with mist, brought honey to his lips, and cleared a pathway through the forest up ahead. Smoothly she detached her flapping wings off from the drum’s beat and paused to turn and lock her eyes with Jester for a suspended moment in time. And then she disappeared into the brush and faded out of sight. Ibis and Blot, huffing and puffing after him, finally caught up and called out to their friend, but Jester didn’t hear. His ears were laser-focused to the rolling of the drums. And though he felt some force pull him by the head closer to the sound against his will, an incredible wave of calm rose up from his feet and filled him with warmth. And as the singing voice started to retreat its melody back to its source, Jester floated silently up to the edge of the forest and slipped between the trees. SWR

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SWR thanks SW, BC, DJL, BLW, MAG, AJ ‘18, CHS ‘17, GJA ‘17, MVS ‘17, GWN ‘16, Sandymount Villa, Greenleaf Hut, and the Pan-American Millennial All Stars SW thanks SWR, FSS, JTB, MRP, LGF, LDL, DJL, BLW, and AJ’18 Ma Lampy goes to China and adopts 6 new kids for tax purposes: Adam Ellis Harper ‘20 of Cartersville, GA and Mather House; Gavin Pasqual Lifrieri ‘21 of Fort Lee, NJ and Winthrop House; Kate Nicole Rachesky ‘22 of New York, NY and Adams House; Grace Y. Shi ‘22 of Lafayette, CA and Adams House; Dash Philippe Delacroix Wasserstein ‘22 of New York, NY and Leverett House; James Perry Wolfe ‘22 of Orlando, FL and Eliot House Eh, that was fine. Now it’s off to the saloon! But 2 recently-promoted IRS agents are not happy about it: David Joseph Lynch ‘20 of Charleston, SC and Kirkland House, Advertising Manager; Maxwell Alan Gay ‘21 of West Point, NY and Leverett House, Circulation Manager

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